


the lost myth of true love

by selflessbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Clarke makes it to space, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18430133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: It feels as if his heart stopped beating five minutes ago. No matter how hard he tries to brace himself for the goodbye, the may we meet again he knows he would rather die with her here than live in a universe where she is nothing but a burning memory at the back of his mind.He can’t fucking lose her. Especially not like this.***(or the one in which Clarke makes it to space and things go differently)





	the lost myth of true love

**Author's Note:**

> this was another tumblr prompt that got a bit out of hand. it's inspired by the roman myth about orpheus and eurydice, and the title is from the song 'talk' by hozier. 
> 
> also, the only reason why this isn't rated 'explicit' is because smut is not the focal point of the story. but there is sex in here somewhere, i promise 😏
> 
> (let's pretend for a hot minute that the ring had showers because i didn't want to change this fic up, so... please deal with it lmao)
> 
> tw: brief mention of physical assault (stabbing)

It feels as if his heart stopped beating five minutes ago. No matter how hard he tries to brace himself for the goodbye, the _may we meet again_ he knows he would rather die with her here than live in a universe where she is nothing but a burning memory at the back of his mind. 

He can’t fucking lose her. Especially not like this. 

 _Please, Clarke._  

With every second he spends looking at the door when she hasn’t appeared in it, the knife digs itself deeper into his heart and twists. If only she could sense his pain, if only it alerted her to _hurry up._ In a minute, Raven will begin the countdown, and his dream will dissolve. There will be nothing he can do to prevent it, but still his hands are trembling with the need to tear his seatbelt off, the words _screw it, I’m staying with her_ are resting on his tongue, ready to be spit out in earnest. His feet are prepared to run.

“Fifteen seconds now.”

_Please, Clarke._

Somehow, he registers Harper reaching out to touch his forearm as if she can sense his wish to escape, as if he’s turned into a grieving husband at his wife’s funeral — hell, maybe he has. The blood has drained from his face, his heart and lungs are giving out. 

“Eight… Seven… Six—“

He cannot leave their people, because she wanted him to lead them, to protect them using his head as well as his heart, but the latter feels useless right now. What’s the point of feeling anything or loving anyone when it all goes to waste in the end? 

“—Five… Four… Three—“ 

Then his eyes play a cruel trick on him; that must be it. A flash of green appears at the edge of his vision, setting his heart into sudden motion. Adrenaline shoots through his veins and his voice regains its strength as he erupts, his ribcage rattling with the force of it, “CLARKE!” 

A few feet away her head lifts. She stares into his eyes and races towards the closing doors, towards the rocket, squeezing her way through before jumping up the steps onto the platform. Despite his better judgment, Bellamy’s taken off his seatbelt to wrap his arms around her as soon as she’s within his reach. Of course, her body is quivering from exhaustion and she’s gasping for air, but she’s _here, alive in his arms._

That’s all that matters. 

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” is what he murmurs against her hair, tugging her against his side as they both sit down in his seat to prepare for take off. Because of the limited space, he becomes hyper-aware of how she feels against him, her head resting against his despite the space suit helmets. 

_God, he came so close to losing her forever._

One thing is certain: He’s never letting go again. Not when the thought of a life without her in it felt as bad as dying.

 

* * *

 

When they first touch feet on The Ring, Bellamy shares his oxygen with her until they manage to turn on the system.

The first thing that Clarke tells him once they’re out of those horrible Hazmat suits is, “I can’t believe we made it here.” 

And he smiles at her, his heart fluttering in his ribcage. If he believed in the existence of miracles, this moment unfolding now would be the closest he’s ever gotten to experiencing one. Sure, they quickly discover that this place is no Earth; in place of trees and sunshine all they have is walls of metal and an aura of darkness. 

An hour after the arrival, Clarke disappears out of his sight while he’s examining technological equipment with Monty, and he just about loses it, panic flaring through his veins. _Did he hallucinate her making it to the rocket? Is she somehow still down there, a burned corpse by now?_ His stomach clenches at the thought, his hands curl into fists, “ _Clarke?_ ”

He expects Monty to turn around and tell him that _she isn’t here_ , but then a familiar voice cuts through the silence. “I’m by the window! Join me for a drink?” 

Relief surges in his chest.

After shooting a small smile at Monty, Bellamy walks with hurried steps in direction of Clarke’s voice until he sees her, facing a big window. Without saying anything, he slips into the empty space beside her. For a minute, his eyes refuse to move from her; now that they can, they take in every single detail of her face: the vast ocean within her eyes, her skin cut from ivory and the golden hair weaved into a braid—a few strands have been pulled loose.

“Earth is just a ball of fire now,” she sighs, meeting his gaze.

Bellamy has to force himself to look at the planet they just abandoned.

 _Damn._ She’s right: Below them, their planet — which was full of life a week ago — looks more like a burning sun than anything, but not in a romantic sense; no, it looks like a hellscape. In some ways he reckons it was even before the radiation wave hit. Their time there was plagued by never-ending pain, by lingering nightmares and — of course — by the thick layer of blood on their hands.

They need a new beginning.

Another chance. 

Next to him, Clarke suddenly turns to face him, and immediate worry pulses through him when he sees her lower lip tremble. Then she asks, her voice small, “You’re not still mad a me for aiming that gun at you?” 

“God, no. Why would you think that?” 

Exhaling raggedly, she adverts her gaze to her feet. “You seem a little… on edge around me? Trust me, Bellamy, I didn’t—“

Determined to reassure her as fast as possible, Bellamy reaches out to pull her into an embrace. Despite himself, he senses tears spring forward in his eyes when her scent hits him. There’s no way to describe what she smells like, but it’s the closest thing to _home_ he knows. 

“I’m just so happy you’re here,” he murmurs against her hair. “I’m only on edge because I almost lost you.” 

Once he’s said this, he feels her nuzzle his ribcage a little, and he is finally able to release the breathe his lungs had been holding captive. For a couple minutes, they just stand there, holding onto one another, unwilling to let go. 

They shouldn’t have to. Not anymore. Never again…

In the end, Clarke draws back only to smile at him and say, “You wanna have that drink with me or what?” With that question lingering in the air, she glances at _The Baton_ , and he nods, feeling relief flood his chest. 

“To second chances,” she says, still smiling at him as she takes the first swig from the bottle. When she winces at that taste, Bellamy can’t help but chuckle, though to be fair, Monty and Jasper’s moonshine never was a favorite of his either. 

(Still, he’d never admit that out loud, because Monty would judge him. Big time. No question about it.) 

“To second chances.” 

Maybe this ring of metal in starry space will give them the peaceful years that they so deserve. The ground was merciless. Perhaps this time outer space will be more forgiving.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Bellamy is pulled from sleep by someone placing their hand on his forearm. At first he believes that he might’ve imagined it, but as soon as eyes adjust to the darkness in his new quarters they settle on her: Clarke is kneeling at his beside. Flicking on the beside table lamp, he watches her face carefully as it is illuminated by the warm light, and it doesn’t take him longer than a second to realize that she’s teary.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” she whispers. 

Searching her gaze, Bellamy reaches out to move a piece of her behind her ear in hopes that it will soothe her. “Don’t worry about that. What’s wrong? Can’t you sleep?”

“I—I keep thinking about it. All the things I’ve done. Do I really deserve to be here when so many didn’t make it?” When she says this, his thoughts drift to _The 100 —_ their original people, most of whom are buried underground on a burning planet. Their last resting place has been turned into a nightmare. 

“Of course you do.” 

He feels it, too: The survivor’s guilt. Sometimes it even threatens to consume him, but he tries to tell himself that if he died, too, then there would be one less person left alive to remember them all. 

At her first sniffle, Bellamy sits up and reaches out again, this time to pull her into the bed with him. Chances are that he’s breaking a thousand invisible boundaries right now, and the thought of that is enough to make him feel worried for a minute until Clarke lets her head fall onto his shoulder. 

She smells of soap, so she must’ve taken a shower before going to sleep. When Bellamy breathes her in, a sense of deep serenity reaches his heart. All that he knows is that he wants her to feel the same way; he wishes that he could make it so every last bit of fear and guilt would seep from her body. He wants to make her feel safe. 

“Can I… Can I stay here? I’ll take the floor, I promise.”

“Clarke, don’t be silly.” Still holding onto her, he lets himself drop back onto the mattress, she follows, pulling the blankets over both of them. Now that she’s here, resting her head on his chest, everything seems much warmer.

As she sighs, Bellamy has to battle the urge to press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. Instead, he asks her if she wants to keep the light on, brushing his fingertips along her arm.

“I’m good now.”

No words could possibly describe how relieved he is to hear her say that.

 

* * *

 

There are no rays of sunshine to wake him up in the morning… or _maybe._ Squeezing one eye open, Bellamy looks at Clarke, still sound asleep in his arms, her head nestled on his chest, and his soft heart flutters, because _it wasn’t a dream._ They are both here. Together.

For a few minutes he lies there, not daring to move an inch. The last thing he wants to do is tear her from much-needed sleep. After everything she’s been through, this is the least she deserves. Then she yawns, her eyelids fluttering slightly. 

“Morning,” he chuckles, causing her to make a sound of mild protest. Just when he thinks she might ignore him and go back to sleep, he feels her lip brush against his cheek: her way of thanking him for letting her stay with him. But it’s really not a favor—If anything, this helped both of them. 

Sleep did not come quite as easily on the ground.

Suddenly, she asks, “Have you tried the showers? You should.” 

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Is that a nice way of telling me that I smell bad?”

At that, she raises her head a little off his chest, which reveals the pink tint that colors her cheeks now. _Cute._ “No, that’s not what I—I mean, it’s soothing.”

 _Yeah. No doubt._ And it would certainly be a lie to say that he doesn’t need a good rinse. The mere thought of the warm water falling against his skin almost makes him shudder in anticipation. Also, regardless of what Clarke thinks, he probably _does_ smell, because wearing the Hazmat suit made him sweat a lot more than usual.

Pulling himself out of bed, Bellamy tells her to save some rations for him before heading towards the bath quarters.

 

He doesn’t remember the last time he touched an actual bar of soap. And this Ring has a whole storage full of them. That’s precious, even though it seems like a given. Bellamy turns on the shower head; the sound of running water is like sweet music to his ears, but more than anything he can’t wait to feel it against his skin, so he shreds his clothes as fast as possible.

 _God._ It’s nothing short of heavenly. Clarke was right again: it’s soothing. In fact, it makes him want to stay here for hours just to relish in the sensation of the water droplets running down his skin, cleaning off every last bit of grime that covers it. He wonders if she felt the exact same way — she probably did…

… Maybe it isn’t wise to think about her right now. 

Bellamy tries to focus on the water again, but suddenly it’s as if an unknown part of his mind has been unleashed, like a wild animal just waiting for a chance of freedom. All he can think about now are the miles of soft ivory skin and her pink lips parting around a gasp... or a _moan._  

There’s nothing he can do to stop it; his cock throbs. 

 _Jesus, what’s wrong with him?_  

Not her. He shouldn’t think about her like that; she deserves better than that. Sure, those five torturous minutes he spent in the rocket expecting her death made him realize a few _very important_ things about his feelings for her, but those don’t include sexual objectification. 

She means more to him than that.

With a loud groan, he turns off the shower and grabs the towel off the hanger to dry himself off. Still, the image of her lingers in his mind, even though he tries his hardest to push it aside. _How will he face her after this?_

 

* * *

 

“You can have the rest of mine,” Clarke offers, trying to hand him her small packet of rationed food. Of course, he refuses it, which makes her frown. “Why not? You need the protein more than I do.”

“Says who?” 

When she doesn’t seem to have an immediate counter-argument ready, Bellamy arches his eyebrows, ready to enjoy his triumph. But then he notices that her cheeks have turned pink again, although he doesn’t know why this time. 

“Says biology. You— Well, you’re  _muscled,_ so you…” she trails off, then attempts to give him the packet again, yet he just smiles and puts his hand above hers to stop her.

“I’m _not_ taking your food, Clarke. Eat. Please.” 

They’re sitting against the wall in the main living area of The Ring. Still, it doesn’t seem homey, which is why Harper and Emori have been discussing ways to the space cozier, so it’ll be more comfortable to be here. After all, they have nowhere else to go for five years. The two women have already moved the best chairs together to form a "couch".

“Maybe we should get some things from storage, like books and fake flowers to decorate the place,” Emori suggests, causing Clarke to perk up.

“That’s a great idea. It’ll give us _something_ to do. I’ll check the rooms in the left wing.”

Before she’s even made a move, Bellamy volunteers to go with her, and he notices Harper smile at Monty before he follows her.

Together, they go from room to room to search for items that could be used—and sure, they don’t come up with nothing: They find a couple of porcelain dog figurines, leading Clarke to spontaneously gush about how much she wanted a pet when she was a kid. “I used to draw animals _all the time_ ,” she says, smiling at the memory, “Cats, dogs, chickens, you name it. And I’d bring them to my dad to get some instant validation.” 

Bellamy chuckles. “I’m sure they were great drawings.”

“Oh, Picasso and Monet were _shaking,_ I’m telling you.”

At that, he bursts into laughter for the first time in what feels like a century; the sensation tickles through him, makes his whole body feel thirty pounds lighter. He can feel life vibrating within him. He doesn’t remember the last time he experienced this. 

When he finally stops, he notices that Clarke is _beaming_ at him, her sapphire eyes full of sparks. Her entire facial expression radiates: _He laughed at my joke._

With a curious strike of bravery, Bellamy pulls her against his side, which makes her look up at him. Nevertheless, this only lasts a moment because she moves away, gliding towards a small bookcase at the corner of the room. “The people who lived here must have been well off. Or at least their heirlooms were passed down several generations. Look at these paperbacks.” 

_Paperbacks?_

His heart does a tiny flip in his chest. He peers over her shoulder to look at the book (the _real_ , physical book) that she’s holding. For a brief moment, his mind flashes back to the only book that he has ever held: _The Iliad,_ which was given to him by Gina. But he passed it on at her memorial service. 

“It’s the fifth book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” Bellamy thinks out loud. 

“You know it?” she asks, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Grinning, he replies, “You don’t?” and watches her eyes crinkle at the corners. Maybe he should explain. “My mom used to tell me about ancient classics all the time. She said that my great-great granddad had a PhD in History.” 

“Really?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Bellamy continues, “Well, yeah. Apparently he had four doctorates. In History, Physics, Astrophysics and Chemistry. He was also an astronaut.”

By now, Clarke’s jaw is slack and her eyes slightly wide, and he can’t help but find it amazing to watch her be this entertained by something so… trivial. Or at least it seems trivial. After a minute, she smiles at him. “I guess it runs in the family, huh?” 

“What? Being a nerd?”

She shakes her head. “No. Being intelligent.”

 _Damn…_ Those words land on him for some reason. Most likely it’s because he doesn’t remember anyone besides his mom ever telling him that. Sure, he did well in school, but because he was from Factory station his teachers had a strange kind of prejudice towards his performance; it was as if they expected him to fail, no matter how good he proved himself to be. 

A wave of fondness crashes over him. “You think I’m smart?” 

“Of course I do.”

He brings the book into his own quarters.

  

After eating their evening rations, Bellamy and Clarke go to his quarters to talk about the algae farm that Monty’s currently setting up. Everything definitely seems to be going according to plan so far, and perhaps it’s due to his Earth-related trauma, but Bellamy keeps expecting something to go wrong. Right now, their biggest threat is starving to death, which is far from ideal. However, it's little compared to the things that  _almost_ happened and  _did_ happen to them while on the ground. 

“I found _toothbrushes_!” Clarke suddenly shouts from inside the bathroom.

At this, Bellamy smiles to himself. Her excitement is just _adorable,_ and sadly it’s something that he hasn’t had the privilege of witnessing much in all the time he’s known her. Struck by an irresistible desire to see her facial expression right now, he stands from the bed and joins her in the bathroom. 

He couldn’t have foreseen that she’d be standing shirtless in front of the mirror. Immediately, his hand flies up to cover his eyes and he backs out of the room, sputtering a string of awkward apologies. Struggling to ignore the burn in his cheeks, he forces himself to sit down on the bed again and keep his head hung in shame. 

 _It’s ridiculous, really,_ he thinks, _that I’m punishing myself for finding her attractive._ In the end, he’s only human. There’s no way he can’t help it despite how much he wants to.

While he waits for her to come out, Bellamy turns some pages in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, trying to find his favorite one. Still, Clarke pulls him out of it, “What was that about?”

His mouth dry, he wills himself to look up at her. “Huh? I don’t—“

“You didn’t even look at me.” 

As soon as she’s said this, a million thoughts rush through his mind, but none of them are quite conceivable, since they jumble together to form a messy knot that has absolutely _no_ meaning whatsoever. The only thing that actually sticks a little is: _Clarke wanted me to look at her?_ At least it sounds like that, and yet it could just be delusion. 

Wishful thinking.

Then she turns her head away. “You know what? Just forget it.” Only when she takes the first step away from him does it dawn on Bellamy that she’s about to walk out, and a loud voice at the back of his mind yells _‘No!’_ so while he still can, he grabs her wrist. 

“Wait. Please…” he takes a breath, then a risk. “… The only reason why I didn’t look at you is because I thought you didn’t want me to.”

She blinks, her lips parting ever so slightly to form the sound, “Oh.” Obviously flustered, she looks down for a moment before daring to meet his eyes again. Their gazes stay connected as the moment draws out and the atmosphere is charged with something that he can’t put his finger on. 

Biting her lower lip, Clarke grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it off.

 _You don’t have to look away now,_ is what he tells himself firmly. So he doesn’t.

In the light of the lamp on his nightstand, her ivory skin glows silvery like the moon. Her full breasts are almost spilling over the cups of the bra, which looks too tight and uncomfortable; he nearly winces at the thought of the material carving red marks into her skin. There’s a purple bruise blooming on her left shoulder. Afraid that this will be the first and only time he’ll ever have the chance of seeing her like this, Bellamy allows himself to take in every single detail, so that he recall them in the darkest hours of the night and feel guilty about it.

_Fuck. She’s gorgeous._

“Come closer,” he murmurs, reaching for her hand to pull her towards him. 

Once she’s within his reach, he can’t hold himself back any longer: His hands move to the small of her back of their own accord and his thumbs start to caress the bit of skin above her hipbone. 

Although he doesn’t know if he can trust his voice at the moment, he asks, “Do you wanna see me, too?”

His heart races in his chest while he waits for her reaction. When she gives a small nod and smiles softly, he removes his own t-shirt, which makes him feel strangely _vulnerable._ He’ never exposed himself to her in this way before; somehow, it’s much more nerve wrecking than crying in front of her. 

Perhaps it’s because his body tells a different story; one that she hasn’t yet heard.

She releases a low gasp before dropping to her knees in front of him, causing his mind to go numb for a second. Gently, she lets her fingertips brush the burns on his sternum that are a constant, brutal reminder of the horrors he went through in Mount Weather. Her hand trails along his ribs until she encounters the nasty scar by the third one.

“What happened here?”

Clenching his jaw to keep the memory from surfacing in his mind, Bellamy replies, “One of my mom’s… long-time _clients_ was a drunk. A violent, rich one. I was fourteen the first time I saw him hit her, and I—I snapped. So he stabbed me with a pair of scissors.” 

The pain sears through him at the remembrance, but it’s dulled almost immediately when her hand cradles his cheek; he can feel the affection that pours from her touch into his skin, making his heart seem lighter. 

Still, there’s a lot that she doesn’t know about him, because they were co-leaders and it was never relevant in the midst of the never-ending chaos. “My middle name is Augustus,” is what he tells her next, causing her lips to part in surprise. But then her eyes start to sparkle slightly as they hold his.

“Like the emperor? How fitting,” she teases. 

Bellamy smiles, running his fingers through her soft hair; something about it feels _different_ somehow, and he can’t prevent a random question from emerging, “Did you brush it?” If she says no it’ll be awkward as hell, but she nods after a moment, her eyebrows furrowing a bit. 

“You noticed.”

With the ensuing silence, the atmosphere between them grows thicker. Of its own accord, his hand travels from the smooth waves of her hair down her back, along her spine, which makes her shudder. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice sounding hoarse for no apparent reason.

 _But God, he wants her._  

Shaking her head, Clarke bends her head to kiss the scar on his ribcage. This action stirs something within him, has him pressing his mouth to the blooming bruise on her shoulder. As he does so, he senses her fingertips brush through his hair, which breeds a tickling sensation underneath his skin. He’s afraid that if he draws back, she’ll stop, so he thinks ‘ _screw it’_ before kissing the column of her throat.

Instead of backing away, she tilts her head to the left to make it easier for him. “ _Oh…_ ” she breathes, lighting a fire in his lower abdomen. Before he can act, however, she’s moved into his _lap,_ straddling his waist as though it’s the most natural thing in the universe.

Hell, maybe it is. They just never noticed because they were too busy waging wars.

Struck by the desire to carry her like this, Bellamy stands and moves across the room until her spine collides with the wall. Here, he drinks her in, passion flowing through his veins as he presses his thumb to her bottom lip. 

Then she says, “You can have me,” and those words push him forward the last two inches until his mouth collides with hers. It’s overwhelming in the best way, that in the darkness he can feel her everywhere; one hand clutching at his hair, the other anchored at his back, her soft lips and minty breath. 

It awakens something in him that he thought had died a long time ago.

“Bellamy…”

“ _Clarke—_ “

Without the slightest warning or mercy, she rolls her hips against his, silently begging for _more,_ and fuck—he wants to give it to her so badly. He wants to give her everything she wants, everything she deserves. Perhaps he can’t, but he’ll try anyway.

Finally, he gains enough courage to remove her bra, and he doesn’t hesitate to tease one of her nipples with his thumb. Because of its sensitivity, she gasps low in her throat, and he presses a gentle kiss to her collarbone. When the first nipple has hardened under his attention, he moves on the second one, barely giving Clarke a moment to prepare. Her breath hitches around his name. 

Taking pity on her, Bellamy puts her down so that her hands are free to touch him. As he’d expected, she doesn’t waste a single moment, pulling him closer by his belt hoop and kissing him; it’s a little messy compared to before, but he can’t bring himself to mind. 

In the midst of the passionate kiss, Bellamy reaches in between their bodies to snap the button on her pants open. He drags them down just enough to make room for his hand between her legs. When his finger traces her slit through the fabric of her underwear, a loud moan tumbles from her lips.

“ _God_ , you make me so—“ 

He feels her trying to rub her thighs together despite his hand being in the way. From that point on, the rational part of his mind stops functioning, and instead of taking it slow he dips his finger inside her. Only when her walls clench around him does he realize the full effect of what he’s done, how wet she is for him. 

_Fuck._

Listening to every needy whimper that is pulled from her throat, Bellamy pumps his finger in and out of her. After a minute, he adds another one because she begins to grind against his hand. To him, there’s nothing more striking than watching her face right now. Her features seem even more delicate now that the seemingly permanent worry has disappeared from them; her cheeks are flushed pink, her lips parted in bliss. 

He brushes a stray piece of her hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful.” Somehow, the words just slip out, but he doesn’t regret saying them; as soon as he has, her walls flutter around his fingers, which leaves him stunned for a moment. Then he rubs her clit faster, determined to feel her get _there._

When she reaches the edge a minute later, it’s with his name on her lips. It’s as if he’s stuck in a vivid dream. But it’s real, even though it’s unfathomable. 

Her thighs are trembling, so he supports her waist to make sure that she doesn’t collapse. At least the tension seems to have seeped from her body. Lifting her chin with his fingers, Bellamy offers her a warm smile. “You good?”

As she nods, still trying to catch her breath, he presses a tiny kiss to the tip of her nose, which makes her giggle. His heart leaps at the unfamiliar sound. “I will be. Once you’re inside me.” 

Then she unbuckles his belt, pulls his pants down along with his boxers, and Bellamy has to kiss her so that he doesn’t lose his mind. This is the girl he used to call _Princess;_ the first person who forgave him for his wrongdoings; the woman who carries half his burden. Their story is a long, complicated one, and not in his wildest dreams did he foresee that everything they’ve been through together would lead to her guiding him inside her. 

They only manage to stand through the first thrust. Holding onto each other, they drop to the floor, which is cold but it doesn’t matter. _She_ is so warm. Because she’s sitting in his lap again now, she has the full control of the pace and rhythm—still, he has no problem giving it up to her.

Clarke chokes on a sob as she takes his length deeper, and though it’s obviously not from pain, sudden worry pinches at his softened heart. Resting his forehead against hers, Bellamy cups her cheek. “I—“ 

“What? Say it, _please._ ”

“I love you,” he manages as pleasure and euphoria mix in his veins. 

She forces her eyes open to look at him, and he sees that they’re glistening with tears. “I love you too, Bellamy.” At the next moment, he falls over the edge, murmuring sweet nonsense against the crook of her neck. 

Afterwards, while they’re lying in his bed — he wants it to be _their_ bed now — she traces her fingertips over the burns on his skin, and suddenly they don’t seem as horrible as before. With a lingering kiss to the crown of her hair, Bellamy reaches over to pick Ovid’s Metamorphoses off the nightstand. 

And without being requested to, he reads the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice to her.

By the end of it, she meets his gaze, tears sticking to her eyes. “Why did you…?” 

Smiling, Bellamy brings her a little closer against his chest and says, “When I was in that rocket, waiting for you until the last second, I thought I was gonna turn into Orpheus. For the first time in my life, perhaps, I understood his desperation and grief. But I _didn’t_ lose you, Clarke, and I will never take that for granted.”

“Neither will I.”

Because unlike Orpheus and Eurydice, they’ve got another chance at life. Together.

 

_I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus_

_When her body was found_

_I'd be the choiceless hope in grief_

_That drove him underground_

_I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee_

_That made him turn around_

_And I'd be the immediate forgiveness_

_In Eurydice_

_Imagine being loved by me!_

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments and kudos to make my day ❤️ it would mean the world to me.


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